Bruar's Rest

future plans?
    ‘Good-father, what is there for me in this place apart from sadness, worrying about you? That woman today brought it closer and more urgent. O’Connor doesn’t care about anyone but himself, he’d move on and never give us a thought. Come with me to Glen Coe, my kin are good quiet folks, there might be a lassie there free to warm your bed.’
    He stopped her and said, ‘Megan, I’m not sure where life will lead me, but one thing I do know—it’s time to leave. War breeds respect, and now men will be working to bring it back home. I know my behaviour has been, well, awful, but I thought about giving up the drink, getting a place and settling my bones, maybe a farm job, you know?’
    ‘Yes, I do. Please mean what you say this time, because I’m worried about that ploughman. The woman had bull’s eyes with the kicking, he’s real pig-angry with you.’
    ‘Don’t fret, I can take care of myself. When O’Connor gets back I’ll tell him we are for the off.’ He smiled, eyes narrowed with smoking, face reddened by alcohol abuse, yet there was a visible change, not something she could explain, a kind of submission.
    ‘Do you want me to pack anything for you, like this box? It seems very bulky to add to your other belongings.’
    She’d seldom known Rory to be so clear and level-headed. She leant down, opened her mother’s box and took out the only thing worth keeping—her and Bruar’s wedding photo.
    ‘Let me see it, lassie.’ His voice filled with emotion as she carefully laid it in his hand. ‘You both were a pair of beauties that day. Do you mind how the photo man shivered with fear?’
    She laughed, and at that minute the vengeful ploughman didn’t bother her. Next day she’d pick up her life and move on, going partways with Rory. The Irishman could go where he wanted, to the moon for all the good he ever did, but Bruar’s father meant the world to her. He was all she had left.
    Leaving Rory to sort his belongings, she decided to say farewell to her beloved hills and the memories shared with her lost Bruar. She called that she’d be back early evening. It was a lovely warm afternoon.
    The last time she’d walked in such glorious sunshine was far back in the time when she and Bruar had skipped on the hills as youngsters. It seemed as if she’d lived two lifetimes. One was when happiness and joy were as common as flowers on a dyke. The other was when unhappiness and heartache were held by the icy fingers of death. She’d never fall in love again: that was left behind with Bruar’s memory on the heather-fringed horizon. But who but fate knows the path ahead? For today was her farewell day, her last day in the Angus Glens. Perhaps the great winged eagle would appear to her. It could not herald doom, if it appeared when there wasn’t a cloud, and there was not a sign of one in the perfect blue sky.
    Leaving a patch of thick yellow broom she walked the steep hillside, filling her lungs deeply with the sweet-scented air. Grouse mothers, pretending to be injured, fell and hobbled at her feet, trying to lure her away from their young chicks, fluttering on infant wings over the purpled ground. ‘Och, look at the state of you; I won’t touch your babies,’ she assured them. ‘I’m here to say cheerio, because tomorrow, my brown-feathered friends, I’m away. Now shut up, because you’re spoiling my peace.’
    Lost in thought in that special place, she smiled, recognising the hill-slope on her right; it was there she first tried to seduce her Bruar. Not tears, but warm feelings welled inside her. God knows she’d shed enough tears, and what good did it do—none at all.
    ‘From this moment, the gathered memories of my beloved Bruar shall be sweet.’
    Filling cupped hands and drinking the clean, cold water from a nearby burn, she began to climb up the steep face of the hill. The mountain scenes were breathtaking, as inch by inch, rock and scree replaced grass and heather. Soon she was stretching sunburnt arms into small crevices to find handholds in the now exposed crag. One last push, and ahead lay the mountain top; a cone-shaped cairn stood alone like an ancient Pictish symbol, fashioned by primitive hands to some pagan God.
    ‘This is heaven,’ she murmured. She fell upon the ground and allowed the sun, sky and the boulders beneath her to possess every inch of her breathless frame. ‘I wish you were here, my man, to share this with me.’
    Suddenly a feeling that